I'm Not Delusional
by Venea Taur
Summary: Constance notices the four arguing outside her home. When she goes to investigate, Aramis tries to pull her into his delusions. She's not having any part of it. A part of the Those Darn Fanfic Writers series
1. I'm Not Delusional

A/N: I don't know how long it's been since I last posted a fanfic, probably at least five years. Sorry, if you thought this might be a miraculous update to another story. Go to my profile page for info on that work. I don't write this sort of work that much anymore, especially not traditional narratives, so I might be a bit rusty, though I was pleased with the result.

Years ago (I'm feeling a bit old with that phrasing) I wrote a series called Those Darn Fanfic Writers. I recently got into The Musketeers and have been avidly reading fanfiction, so I thought I'd give this series the Fanfic Writers treatment. This is meant to be just slightly humorous, not offensive. I really do enjoy all of the whumping that goes on in the stories. It's helping me to keep my sanity as I'm working and finishing up grad school. Think of this as a thank you for the whumping and please write more.

Read, relax, and enjoy.

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I'm Not Delusional

Aramis sat down with a heavy sigh. The log of wood moved beneath him, forcing him to shift himself quickly to find the right balance before he toppled over. He sat there, balance found, mentally examining his body, feeling the different aches and rating their severity. How long it took, he wasn't sure. It could've been long as the others hadn't taken note yet. He cursed under his breath. It had happened again.

"Aramis." That was D'Artagnan, probably with his weapons. The lad had made the mistake of getting in too deep in a card game with Porthos and was now stuck collecting their spent weapons after skirmishes for the next month. A week into his lost bet and Aramis was sure he was regretting his cockiness. "Your pistols. I'm sure you'll want to clean and reload them yourself."

Aramis turned to grab the weapons only to have D'Artagnan nearly drop them and gasp.

"You're wounded," he said. Aramis looked down, seeing a dagger stuck firmly in his left shoulder.

"Oh," Aramis said. "I had forgotten about that."

"We need to get that taken care of. Athos, Porthos." He turned his head to call the other men before setting aside the pistols and dropping to his knees to get a better look at the wound. Aramis, for his part, just sighed. How many times was this? The fourth? Fifth, maybe? Perhaps Porthos and Athos would not stop him from finding them this time. His voices of reason, appointed by themselves, quickly joined them. He gave them both a once-over. Disheveled as any would be after taking on bandits at the rate 4 to 1 during the peak of their latest skirmish, but unharmed. Completely unharmed. Even the whelp, brazen and inexperienced as he was, had not a nick on him.

Of course.

"Anything besides the obvious," Athos asked, looking down at Aramis.

"I haven't had time to check," D'Artagnan answered when the marksman didn't.

"'Mis?" Porthos this time, in that tone that said don't you dare hide anything or I will take you apart the next time we spar in hand-to-hand. That tone was the very reason Aramis never did spar hand-to-hand with the larger man. Too many times had he hidden something and he didn't want to imagine the aches and pains he'd be feeling after going up against Porthos now.

"What," he finally said, his voice low.

"Other injuries we can't see?" Porthos was now kneeling opposite from D'Artagnan, on the other side of Aramis.

"Of course. They wouldn't've let me get away with a simple dagger to the shoulder, don't you know? It's probably poisoned!"

"Poisoned?!" D'Artagnan gasped, while the other two barely blinked.

"This again?" Athos couldn't believe Aramis was going this route now. He'd been doing good at not sinking back into this delusion.

"It's not a delusion." Aramis jumped to his feet, pointing a finger at Athos. "I know you two think it's just some fever-induced delusion, but it's not. They're real and they're out to get me."

"And yet each time you've talked about them you've clearly been incapacitated in some way that casts serious doubt on your mental stability."

"I know what's real and they're real. They're always plotting, can't just leave well enough alone." Aramis pushed past the men, walking a few steps before turning to face them. Each of them, D'Artagnan more closely so, tracked him visually.

"The last time you thought the Cardinal was a time-travelling alien who lived in a blue box," Porthos countered.

Aramis paused.

"Okay, I'll admit that was probably the fever, but they're not."

"Maybe we should put this discussion aside and take care of that dagger wound before it gets worse," D'Artagnan suggested. "Especially if it's poisoned."

"It's not poisoned," Athos said quickly.

"How do you know," Aramis said. "It's not like they haven't done it before."

"I think I'd remember a poisoned blade."

"I'm pretty sure they've done it. If not to me, then definitely to one of you."

"Don't drag us into your delusions," Porthos said.

"Damnit, they're not delusions. How many times do I have to explain this. I mean, it all makes sense. All the sudden attacks on normally peaceful trails, the injuries, captures, illnesses. None of it makes sense without them!"

Aramis had started pacing, using his hands to emphasize his explanation. D'Artagnan felt his stomach twinge slightly at the sight of the dagger moving up and down with each movement. How could the marksman stand it? On a turn where Aramis turned his body fully towards the three of them, he spotted a gash on Aramis' right side, mid abdomen. Was that there before?

"Um, Athos, maybe we should just knock him out," D'Artagnan suggested quietly as Aramis continued talking.

"No use," Porthos answered on the other side on D'Artagnan. "Tried it once. He woke up worse."

"Worse than this? He's got a dagger wound and a slash to his abdomen and is that a dislocated shoulder?"

"He has to wear himself out," Athos answered.

"But, he's going to injure himself further."

"He'll be fine."

D'Artagnan could only hold himself for a moment more before he broke rank with the two men to confront Aramis.

"You two may be able to stand here and watch, but I cannot." The two men sighed.

"We did warn him." Porthos looked to Athos as the lad kept moving towards their fourth.

Athos nodded.

"Aramis," D'Artagnan started gently, unsure of how to approach the man. He didn't really doubt the other two, but he had to try.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis took a big, wobbly step towards the younger man. D'Artagnan wondered if it was due to a leg injury or if he'd taken a hit to the head. As the marksman drew closer, he saw the trickle of blood coming from the right temple. "Surely, you believe me. I mean, haven't you ever thought about all of things they do to you?"

"Um…" he hesitated. "No, it's a part of the job. We're in dangerous situations. Maybe you want to sit down so I have a look at your wounds. We wouldn't want them to get infected, right?" He hoped appealing to Aramis's common sense and medic side would work.

"Infected?" Aramis laughed and clumsily clapped D'Artagnan on the shoulder. "I guarantee you that not only is the dagger poisoned, but infection has already set in. Within hours I'll have a high fever and be delirious for days. I'll even almost die!" With that, the pacing started again. And D'Artagnan, well, wasn't sure if he could look any more shocked. He looked back at the other men, who shrugged their shoulders and gave each other one of those annoying looks that he didn't understand. He couldn't help the childish huff that came from him. They were talking without talking again.

D'Artagnan didn't have a chance to respond before Aramis began talking again.

"You really haven't been with us all the long, so I suppose it's no wonder that you haven't seen the clues. You'll see soon enough because they really are quite relentless. I have been shot, stabbed, whipped, burned at the stake, strangled, tortured, poisoned, and had more broken bones than I thought possible. It's a wonder I can still shoot straight with as many times as my arm's been broken! Do you realize the dangers of setting a bone properly? You just have to pray that it's done correctly and heals without a problem."

During this rant, Aramis had continued his pacing and increased the gesticulating with his arms. D'Artagnan noted with increasing alarm that the older man's gait, while still quick, almost frantic, was punctuated heavily as he leaned increasingly more on his left leg. The right knee seemed to be swelling quickly, so much that he was wondering if they'd have to cut the trousers off to get a look at it. Aramis pivoted sharply, nearly toppling over. D'Artagnan was prepared to grab him, when he saw the gash on his back, stretching from the left shoulder down to the right lower back. It wasn't bleeding heavily, but he could definitely see that the blade had slashed clean through the doublet and shirt underneath.

"Aramis," D'Artagnan called out when the man finally took a moment to breathe. The younger man moved closer to him. "Why don't we go back over to the log and sit down. You can tell me all about them and we'll see to your injuries." He moved to put an arm gently around Aramis' shoulders, but the man quickly stepped aside.

"I can't, not yet, don't you see? I've had enough of them!" Aramis walked away from D'Artagnan, tripping as his steps faltered momentarily. "I've been ill more times than I can count, and not just with simple coughs and sniffles. I'm talking about high fevers that bring about fits, lungs wet enough that just breathing is a chore, and nausea so bad water won't even stay down. I've been blinded at least a couple times, passed out more times than I thought possible for one person, dislocated more joints than I care to think about, and that's not the strangest of it all!"

D'Artagnan gave him an incredulous look. On the one hand, he couldn't believe the way Aramis was talking, but he also wondered exactly how the man was still standing. Blood was now seeping from the dagger wound, the limp was more pronounced and complicated by an unseen wound on the other leg, and despite the animations of his arms, Aramis was most definitely leaning inwards, unconsciously protecting his ribs. This had to end soon. Each step, movement was only serving to cause further injury, he was sure.

"But that's not enough for them!" Aramis threw his arms up, not realizing apparently when the left one didn't follow through. "They don't like just the here and now. No, sometimes we're thrown into the future and that's when it gets really strange and bad. I get shot, stabbed, poisoned, beat up there too. Sure, the medicine is better, but that just means they can do more! Everything's always the same then, just worse. And with so many fancy names for things, for conditions and illnesses."

Maybe Athos and Porthos were right about Aramis. The marksman did have him going for a bit, but this future talk? Perhaps the dagger really was poisoned.

"Do you know how many times I've been hit in the head and lost consciousness? Why sometimes I don't wake up for days because of it. It's a wonder I haven't become brain addled from all those hits."

"I'm beginning to think you might be a bit touched," D'Artagnan said quietly.

"I heard that!" Aramis rounded on him quicker than D'Artagnan thought possible for the injured man. "They're real. You'll find out soon enough. Maybe you can help me go after them. I don't know where they are, but I know they're around here somewhere."

"Why?" Perhaps feeding into the delusions might help as casting doubt had only served to aggravate the marksman.

"To stop them!" Aramis clasped his hands, well hand on D'Artagnan's arm. "I can't take it anymore. I spend more time recovering in bed than standing hale and hearty. It's like they coordinate it all, or something." Was that a touch of paranoia D'Artagnan detected? "Just when I'm recovered, able to stand on my own two feet, they strike again!" Aramis attempted to clap his hands together, not noticing when only the one hand flailed awkwardly in the air. How was the man still moving? Still unaware of this?

"They? How do they have such control?"

"They're fanfic writers, that's how. Whatever they write comes true."

"Fanfic writers?" He gave Aramis a look of disbelief and perhaps a step back, but could anyone blame him? Aramis had to be seriously ill, perhaps was even before the skirmish. Thinking about it, the marksman was a bit pale during breakfast.

"They write stories about books, movies, television shows. That sort of thing."

The fever must've taken full hold. Movies? Television shows? What were those things? There was no way any of this was real. He looked back to Porthos and Athos. They gave him their customary smiles. Athos gestured for him to continue trying to solve the problem. Was this a test of some sort? Did Treville know about this? He took a deep breath. He had to find a way to end this. Aramis was growing weaker, limping heavier, bleeding more, and close to bending in half at the waist.

"Alright," he said without thinking. "We'll go after them."

Aramis stopped in his tracks, several steps away from the younger man. He turned to face him.

"Really? You believe me? You'll help me?"

"Yeah…" D'Artagnan hesitated, the reality of his words only then sinking in. He muttered a curse. What had he gotten himself into? "But not now. You're injured. You don't want to face them wounded as badly as you are, do you?"

"You mean all of this?" Aramis clumsily waived his hands at his body. "This is nothing. Doesn't even hurt, see?" He poked the side of the dagger and paled even more when it shifted a good inch then moved back into place. D'Artagnan heard him gasp. The pain finally registered. "Porthos? I think they got to me again," Aramis said weakly.

"'bout damn time," Porthos said. D'Artagnan stood frozen as Aramis finally began succumbing to the wounds. Athos and Porthos were there to catch him before he fell, carefully laying him on the ground in well-practiced motions. D'Artagnan shook the shock away and joined them in time to see Aramis lose consciousness and to hear Athos speak.

"Those damn fanfic writers," the swordsman muttered so quietly that D'Artagnan wondered if he'd properly heard him.


	2. Are You Listening to Yourself

A/N: This is another "Those Darn Fanfic Writers" story. It's not the one I told a couple reviewers was coming next. That one is written, but it has some issues that I can't get sorted out now. This one, however, almost wrote itself. Thanks to those who read and reviewed the last story. These stories are wonderful breaks from the monotony of grading and studying. Please read, relax, and enjoy.

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Are You Listening to Yourself?

"Absolutely not," Treville said. He was trying to keep his voice down, but it was a challenge given the ridiculous argument he was having with the man who stood rather pathetically in front of him. He was pale, slightly hunched over, and squinting against the bright sunlight streaming into the office.

"You don't understand," Aramis countered, his voice just shy of yelling.

Treville wondered which would come first, Aramis stamping his foot in anger or walking out in a huff. Or, rather, limping out in a huff. The man still wasn't fully recovered from his last round of injuries.

"Can you even sit on a horse," he asked.

"I'll tie myself to the horse, if I have to. I've got to go after them, sir."

"It's reckless."

"I'm no safer here than I would be out there."

That held a certain bit of truth after his tumble down the stairs earlier this week. He'd spent a lengthy recovery, which meant a just shy of a week in Inseparables terms, in bed while his cuts, bruises, gunshot wound, cracked ribs, and concussed head healed. He'd only been a day without fever when he made his own way out of his room when the others were gone. From all accounts, the marksman had been surprisingly steady footed for the injuries he'd sustained. Halfway down, apparently, it went horribly awry.

Aramis still couldn't tell them what had happened, but those who saw the incident said he bent over suddenly at the waist, tried, but failed to catch the rail with his hand and tumbled down the stairs where he landed on discarded planks of wood. The workers, who'd been doing repairs on the garrison, hadn't yet cleaned them of nails. There were several shallow puncture marks and scratches on his back and five deep puncture marks on his shoulder where he finally settled after tumbling. He was unconscious for a day and delirious up until yesterday when the fever finally broke. Though, Treville was beginning to wonder if the physician's prognosis of that matter was accurate as he watched Aramis wavering and pale, yet still begging to go hunt down and find these figments of his fever-addled brain.

"As much as that may seem to be true in this case, you're still not going."

"This won't stop until I take care of them. Something will probably before I'm fully healed again, probably just when I walk out the door here. They always seem to strike when I'm catching on to them."

"Are you even listening to what you're saying?"

"You don't know what it's like, sir. You may think I'm this injury prone, but I'm not. It's all them."

Treville was silent, giving him a look of really, do you expect me to believe that when you're the number one expense here with all of your injuries and visits from physicians.

"I'm serious. None of those injuries are my fault."

Again, Treville was silent.

"Okay, some of them were, like teaching Porthos to shoot a melon off my head. Those grazes were definitely my fault, but not most of the injuries."

"You've forgotten, Aramis, I've seen you go into battle. You charge in head first, no thought to the outcome as long as it saves the lives of those around you."

"I do not." Aramis stood up straighter, or tried to, it really was hard with the lingering ache in his knee to stay standing.

"What about your last mission? Athos told me that you charged, with your horse, first into a group of heavily armed bandits."

"They were holding Porthos."

"He'd already knocked three of them unconscious. You fired your pistols, killed a couple, then launched into the remaining eight. What were you hoping to accomplish?"

"Porthos was wounded."

"He was doing fine. You got there minutes ahead of the others. The bandits pulled you from your horse, stabbed and punched you, and then trussed you up before Porthos could get to you. You were damn lucky they didn't expect Athos and D'Artagnan."

"It wasn't my fault." Aramis just held a wince back at those words. Even he could see how pathetic that argument sounded. There was a stuffiness in his head that was making thinking rather difficult.

"Did anyone else tell you to ride in the middle of the bandits? D'Artagnan and Athos report telling you to stop."

"It was them."

Silence.

"Why does no one believe me," Aramis said when Treville remained silent. He might have stamped his foot for emphasis if he thought the action wouldn't cause him to lose his balance and topple over, thereby proving Treville right.

"Again, I ask, have you listened to yourself," Treville said with a sigh.

"I do realize how it sounds, but please understand it from my perspective. Do you think I enjoy being injured so often?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Treville muttered.

"Don't you think that I'd stop if I could?"

"Are you saying that someone else is responsible for your hair-brained ideas like jumping into a prison riot completely without sending for help first."

"They had D'Artagnan."

"He was handling himself perfectly well."

"He was wounded. I know I saw that," Aramis countered.

"A slight gash to his cheek. No one even knows that there was a wound there. By the time someone had sent for help, you'd been stabbed, they'd given you two black eyes not to mention being hit hard enough on your head you didn't know up from down, what ribs weren't cracked were broken, twisted your arm severely, and wrenched your knee out of place. And then there were the minor scrapes and bruises. It was D'Artagnan who saved _you_ in the end."

"Okay, I agree that was a monumental bad decision, but I don't know how it happens, sir. I don't set out with these intentions. I know better than to rush into dangerous situations." Aramis tried to raise his arms to emphasize his words, but the gunshot wound to his shoulder was still paining him as were his ribs, which now seemed to burn with every movement, including breathing.

"Your track record demonstrates otherwise, especially when one of your friends is in trouble. You lose all common sense then."

"I don't mean to. It's like someone else takes over."

"What are you suggesting?" Treville bent over his desk, placing his hands on the surface. Maybe intimidation would steer Aramis off the track he was heading down. It had never worked before, though, not even when he was a raw recruit in the newly formed regiment.

Aramis paused for a moment. Then his face lit up in a way that Treville knew he was going to regret the next words that came from the marksman's mouth.

"It was them!" Aramis was triumphant. Anyone would've thought he solved the greatest mystery of life the way his face, his body was beaming with excitement. "They're to blame. They make me do these things."

Treville groaned, loudly, but Aramis was too happy to take notice.

"Do you realize what you've just admitted to?" Treville gave him a serious look, the most serious, yet still disbelieving look of their current conversation on this matter.

Aramis stopped his gloating and looked at Treville.

"You're admitting to hearing voices which means you're either crazy or possessed, both of which will end badly for you. Which would you rather be? Personally, I'd take the crazy, you'll be out a job, but it's better than death." Treville was trying his best to not sound flippant because he knew Aramis was serious.

"I'm neither." Aramis was emphatic. "Why doesn't anyone take this seriously?"

"As I've said before, have you listened to yourself? You sound delusional at best and when you get really worked up, deranged. I don't know how the others put up with it."

"They ignore it, even D'Artagnan does now." Aramis hoped that didn't sound as whiny as he thought it did. Thinking was really becoming a chore with his head pounding, the heat rising, and the air thickening. It was all causing his stomach to churn mercilessly. He wanted Treville to open a window, but that'd be admitting that something was wrong and Treville would have good reason to keep him from going after them.

"And with good reason. You've got to shut up about them. If the Cardinal heard, do you know how pleased he would be to have you declared mentally unfit and discharged from the Musketeers?"

"I hadn't thought about that. It's … it's just so annoying. I'm always hurt or sick. I'm getting really tired of it."

"You're being reckless. Sometimes you're worse than D'Artagnan. You've got to start stopping to think. Listen to Athos."

"I do, but there's just that voice that says go for it."

"Ignore it. Beat it into submission. I don't care, just start thinking before you take action. I can't keep asking the king for more money for our medical bills. He's already starting to wonder what's going on here. The Cardinal will soon start in on incompetence again. I can't have him casting doubt on this regiment's abilities."

"I'll try."

"Please do so. If you can't, you'll be confined to barracks until we can figure out a solution."

"Now, that's not fair," Aramis protested. He was a little too emphatic in his protest, however, and just caught himself before falling forward and bashing his head against Treville's desk. But he couldn't hold back a wince as the movement pulled on his injuries.

"What's not fair," a voice behind him asked. When had Athos arrived? He looked behind to see all three were there.

"He wants to confine me to barracks."

"If he can't stop from getting hurt. Honestly, it's a safety issue. If you can't walk down the stairs, how can you manage guarding the king and queen or chasing down criminals?"

"He has a point," Porthos commented.

"Shut up," Aramis retorted.

"Look, for now, go back to your room. I know you're not healed yet." At Aramis' dumbfounded look, he explained further. "You've been swaying increasingly more as we've talked, you're paler than one of the queen's white dresses, you haven't stopped rubbing your shoulder for at least the past fifteen minutes, you haven't put any weight on your left leg which means your knee is still aching, you're breathing heavier and holding your stomach so either your ribs are still aching or you're getting sick, you've swallowed through some coughs and maybe nausea, and who could miss the rosy specks on your cheeks and glossy look in your eyes that signify fever. You're not better yet. Go lie down and rest." He hoped the commanding tone would be enough to unconsciously spur Aramis into action.

It wasn't. The man stood there dumbfounded still. Aramis tried to make his initial request again, but Athos interrupted him, taking charge of the situation.

"We'll take care of him, sir," Athos said. He took one of Aramis' arms, the good one and tugged him towards the door. Aramis followed without complaint, unconsciously trusting his brothers. Porthos patted Aramis on the shoulder as the four of them left. Treville shook his head and sighed as he heard the footsteps grow quieter. They were nearly to the stairs when he heard a series of clashes and bangs, none of which sounded pleasant. Walking to the door to see what happened, he hoped it was one of the other men, but even as he looked out the door, he wasn't surprised to see Aramis in a tangle of odds and ends at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious and bleeding once again.

"Those damn fanfic writers," he cursed as he stepped forth to help the men.


	3. Fools!

A/N: Here's the third installment of _The Musketeers_ v. the fanfic writers, or rather Aramis v. the fanfic writers. It's Constance's turn this time and she, predictably, has a different approach to the whole situation. It's not quite as humorous as the others, but the men are sure to provide a laugh or two. I might have one or two more ideas for this, but they won't be finished for a bit. I'm working on some shorter pieces and one longer work. Please read, relax, and enjoy.

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"Fools!"

Constance heard them before she saw them. They were arguing, but it didn't sound angry. If anything, it was exasperation that filled every man's voice. She looked out the window to see the four familiar men standing in the street. Aramis stood facing the other three, with his back to her. Still, she could see the slight wobble in his stance. She knew they'd been sent on a mission and must've just returned, not arriving at the garrison yet, even. Something must've happened to have made them stop here and argue. Stepping out to investigate, the first voice she heard was Aramis.

"D'Artagnan, surely you believe me, especially after this last mission. Don't be as obtuse as these two." Aramis threw a hand in the direction of Porthos and Athos, turning to face the younger man as he did so, a movement that easily unsettled his apparently precarious balance. D'Artagnan sighed, but didn't respond. Constance could see that he wanted to, but was forcing himself to be silent. What was going on? None of them had taken notice of her, not even the three who faced her.

When she was nearly upon them, Aramis turned, the frustration evident in his posture. It was then she saw the bloody bandage wrapped around his right shoulder. There was a dagger still there, if she saw correctly and she always did. Why they hadn't removed it was beyond her. Instinct said to trust in, Aramis' medical knowledge, but she knew when it came to his own health he seemed to forget key details.

"Honestly," she muttered quietly as she walked towards he still oblivious men, "can't they ever stay out of trouble."

"Ah, Constance," Aramis said. He was cheerful and she wanted nothing more than to smack him across the face. The man took an unsteady step towards her.

"Constance," D'Artagnan said. "What are you doing here?" He was beside her before she knew it and she was just feet from the others.

"What's going on here?" She ignored him, pointing to Aramis instead.

"You are rather forward thinking unlike these uncouth brutes." He gave the three a slightly disgusted look, though it held no real bite, not in voice or action, not with the way he was listing from side to side like a mast on a windy day.

"Nothing," D'Artagnan quickly answered.

"They have very narrow minds. Perhaps you'll believe me," Aramis began.

"Don't," D'Artagnan warned, giving Aramis a firm look. "Believe nothing of what he says." He turned back to Constance. "He's delusional, took a fall from his horse after fainting and must've hit his head.

"How many times must I repeat myself, I'm not delusional. They're real and they're out to get me, hurt me in whatever ways please them."

"They're just a figment of your imagination, Aramis," Porthos said.

"So, you're all just going to stand around arguing until he passes out," Constance asked.

Athos shrugged his shoulders.

"Usually works," Porthos said.

"Did last time," D'Artagnan added.

Constance looked at the three men, then again at Aramis, who was still standing, but more unsteady on his feet. Blood was soaking the bandage around his shoulder, dribbling down in long streak on his doublet and now she could see the blood trickling down the side of his face, collecting in and matting down his beard. She looked back at the others to see if they were taking note of any of this.

Apparently not. And they were only causing a ruckus by standing out here, blocking the way and arguing. She couldn't imagine the Captain nor the King would be terribly pleased to know of the spectacle the men were causing and how many prying eyes they were attracting.

She huffed and gave Aramis a gentle shove to get him moving toward her house. He took a step forwards, or perhaps it was more of a stumble before planting his feet.

"No, I have to go after them and if none of you are going to believe me, I'm going alone." He moved towards his horse, but Constance caught him before he got far, using his momentum to direct him towards the house. He stumbled once more, but regained his footing. She was sure now that there was a leg injury, right leg from the looks of it.

"Constance, stop," he said. She ignored him, keeping up her gentle, but constant pushing of him towards the door, now held open by a smirking D'Artagnan. Through the leather, she could feel long stretches of raised skin, possibly welts, and did he really think she couldn't hear the small gasps in his breathing. Just before he took a step past the threshold of her house, he put out a bloodied hand, holding firmly onto the doorframe as he pivoted around to face the four of them. Where had he been hiding that hand, she wondered. They couldn't've missed it.

"I don't need to be here. I need to get out there before this happens again. It seems to be getting worse." His eyes were glossy, with fever or pain, she'd find out soon enough.

"And how do you expect to get them when you're spilling blood from more places than I can count," Constance asked. D'Artagnan knew that tone. They all knew it. It was the tone that meant she was at least five steps ahead of you and was just waiting for you to realize it. He'd heard her take that tone with him all too much in the last couple months. No one was immune, probably not even Athos or Treville.

"There might be a cut or two. I did fall off my horse, after all," Aramis countered with an easy smile. If he wasn't wounded, she thought.

"That fall must've damaged your sight as well." She sighed. "You're injured, now get in there before you pass out I have to drag you." When he appeared ready to protest again, she turned him around roughly, ignoring his grunts of pain, and pushed him into the house, through the living room, lest he get blood on anything in there and gave him one final shove into the kitchen. He, for his part, stumbled at the sudden movement, gasped at her shove, and stumbled into the table that was fortunately there. Every movement lacked his usual grace, though he was too shocked at her to protest.

"Are you trying to help them?" The words slipped out of his mouth before he had much of a chance to fully, let alone half, ponder them. His voice was rough and low as he tried to recover from his sudden appointment with the table.

"Of course not," she answered. Though the words were quietly spoken, she still heard them from other side of the room, where she was gathering the needed supplies. "One of you," she called out to the other three, who hovered lost at the kitchen doorway, "get some water."

Constance turned back to look at Aramis. She felt some guilt that he'd ran into the table stomach first and was still hunched over, gasping and clutching at his ribs. He'd moved away from the table, though he was still heavily leaning on it, but made no other movements to rest.

"Someone help him out. Get his weapons off so we can get to his wounds."

"I'm fine. I have to go get them," Aramis protested even as D'Artagnan and Athos helped him to sit in a chair. Constance watched as the two men removed him of his weapons, belt, and sash. The doublet was left on in deference to the dagger in the shoulder.

"The boots too," she said. Maybe then he'd be less inclined to go galavanting off to where ever his delusions wanted to take him. This really should be done down at the garrison, but she knew they'd not make it there for hours at the rate they'd been arguing. She was sure too, looking at the right boot, that the leg injury was that foot, probably ankle. Hopefully they wouldn't have to cut the boots off. The man was worse than a woman with how he cared for his clothes. The last doublet he'd lost to too much wear and, well, mostly tearing from injury, he didn't stop moaning about for weeks. She set her supplies next to him on the table while each man took a boot. "The dagger wound is obvious, as is the head wound and cut to your hand. What other injuries are you hiding?"

"All minor, I assure you," Aramis answered, pushing himself to his stocking feet. He hissed as his right foot took his full weight. Definitely injured, then. Because it didn't give out right away, probably a sprain, but then again it could be broken. He was waltzing around with a dagger in his shoulder.

"Sit down, you fool." Constance made to push him back down, but he managed to squirm out of her reach and started a pacing pattern which was all too familiar to the men. She observed as he completed a complete circuit of his pacing. The movement was doing the dagger wound no good as even more blood was leaking down the coat and likely soaking the shirt underneath. She knew his back was injured, but seeing him walking now, she was certain he'd managed to also injure his ribs. She hadn't gotten close enough to see if he had a fever but with the constant rambling about needing to go get some people, he had to have one. And the others, his friends were doing nothing. Porthos was back with the water, but he hadn't done much more to help. How many times could she huff in a day before it became unreasonable?

"I know that you need to go get them," she started, trying to hold back a sigh, "but you won't get far with that dagger in your shoulder."

Behind her D'Artagnan poorly smothered a laugh. She didn't dare glare at him as she now had Aramis' attention. The man had stopped and was giving her his full attention.

"I'd forgotten all about that. I get one every month I think. Sometimes they shake it up with a gunshot wound. They alternate though, the shoulder that is," Aramis explained. As he continued to detail the different dagger wounds, Constance moved in to untie the bandage around this wound. There was no way, unfortunately, to get to the wound without removing the doublet and to do that the dagger had to come out.

"Why don't you sit over here," she said. "You must be tired from riding all day and you'll want to be rested before going out."

"Hmm?" He looked at her surprised. "You're not listening, are you? You're just playing along like D'Artagnan did."

"Of course, you were telling me about the fifth time you were stabbed in the shoulder. It was the left one this time and you were in a bar fight after Porthos got caught cheating, but he wasn't cheating. Not then, anyway. He had been earlier." As she talked, she'd managed to move him back to where she could easily push him into sitting back in the chair.

"The sixth time was also the seventh time because they got me in both shoulders. Knocked me clean off my feet faster than any of Porthos' punches. I think I hit my head on a rock after that. Next thing I remember is being chained up next to a grumpy Athos. He gets grumpy when he can't get his wine." Aramis whispered the last bit, or thought he whispered. Athos glared at him, but the marksman was too unfocused on the world around him to notice.

"And then what happened?" Constance tried to keep him going as she worked. The dagger was out and now came the task of getting the doublet off. Wordlessly, she motioned for Porthos to come over. She was going to need some help getting it off of him without him noticing.

"And then and what's going on." Aramis put his hands up, stopping both Constance and Porthos as they moved to remove his doublet.

"Now, stop it. I'm trying to get to this dagger wound," Constance explained. She shooed Porthos away, but kept going at getting his doublet off.

"There's nothing wrong with the wound. Just a simple bandage and I'll be ready to go." He took the doublet off himself, unconsciously struggling as it seemed his hands had stiffened some and the right elbow didn't want to bend easily. Halfway through undressing, Constance caught the wince and gasp the indicated some other hidden wound. The doublet off, he couldn't do much more than that, not even lift it away. She picked it up, seeing lines of blood seeping through the shirt on his back.

"What happened to you?" She couldn't help asking.

"Them, I already told you and if you're done gawking, I need to go." He made to stand up. Constance kept him down with a hand to his shoulder. It was the wounded one, but she wasn't sure that he could feel anything. With the number of wounds he had and the amount of blood that was coming from him, he really shouldn't be moving, let alone conscious and talking.

"Do you really think that whoever it is that you're insistent on seeing wants to see you faint the second you see them," Constance asked, a hand on her hip, staring down at Aramis.

"Yes." His voice was sharp and clear. "They'd delight in it. They're sick and twisted. In desperate need of some divine intervention, I'm sure. I won't turn them over to the Cardinal, but I must do something. Something to turn their creative inclinations towards something more productive. Something that doesn't involve ensuring that I spend more time acquainted with my bed than with my horse! Do you know the women are starting to ask about all of these scars? There's one that delights in drawing lines between them each night to see what images she can conjure up on my body."

"I thought you'd like that sort of thing," D'Artagnan said with a smile.

"It tickles," Aramis said quietly.

"What?" D'Artagnan wasn't sure that he'd heard right.

"He's ticklish, all over really, but the worst is his chest and back. Doesn't take much," Porthos explained and then demonstrated with a quick poke to the marksman's wounded side. Aramis let out a rather feminine giggle, batted the hand away as well as he could with his wounded arms, and glared at Porthos.

Constance sighed, loudly. She tried not to, but these men were playing games while one bled out before them and rambled on about delusions.

Wordlessly, she picked up a knife and cut from top to bottom the front of Aramis' shirt. He squawked, but the shirt was already ruined. There was too much blood and too many holes to think about repairing. Bare from the waist up, Aramis's wounds were now in full view. The dagger wound was bleeding freely down his chest. His stomach bore a long cut. It was shallow from what she could see, but with each movement of his kept up a steady trickle of blood. On his back were welts, not from a whip, but he was definitely hit with something. Some were bloodied and all had an angry red shade to them.

The room was silent as she worked on cleaning, stitching, and bandaging the many wounds. She knew that the three were still just standing there, as if waiting orders. It was best that they did that, she thought, stand there while she took care of the man they considered a brother. Aramis, for his part, was mostly silent, making groans and hisses as she prodded the aches and pains. Once he called out to his brothers to stop Constance from hurting him. Their reply was silence.

By the time she was done, the marksman was paler than he was when she first found them arguing outside her house, but he hadn't uttered another word about them, whoever they were. Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan were in shock over the ease at which she handled their brother.

"Now I don't see what the problem was," she said, washing her hands in the basin of water on the counter.

"Well, he normally goes on much more," Porthos tried to explain. Constance gave a huff at the pathetic attempt.

"He's usually quite obstinate when he gets in this mindset," Athos said.

"Really. He seemed quite easy to manage to me, a simple housewife, not a few strong, fearless Musketeers."

"He's usually going on about those fanfic writers, always wanting to go after them," Porthos said.

"Well, you've just got to get tougher with him, ignore these ramblings. It's certainly doing him no good and I doubt the Captain is pleased with it either. I mean what if this gets back to the king or the Cardinal? Now, help me get him up to D'Artagnan's room. He can stay there until he's more mobile."

"Where am I to sleep then," D'Artagnan asked as he stepped in with the others to move Aramis.

"There's enough room in that bed, both of you can fit. Anyway, I expect that tonight none of you'll be getting much sleep with the fever and all his aches and pains."

The three men looked at each other and then at their unconscious brother in their arms. They knew him all too well to know that she was indeed speaking the truth. Sleep would be a rare commodity tonight and likely for several more nights.

"Those damn fanfic writers," the three muttered in near unison as they carefully took their fourth up the stairs.


End file.
